


Caught Up In the Spirit of the Season

by Saraste



Series: FICMAS 2020 [3]
Category: Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Ficmas, Home for Christmas, Not Canon Compliant, Not your normal holiday ficlet, Vampires, dark and twisty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27857957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraste/pseuds/Saraste
Summary: Laura and Carmilla have fled to Paris and spending their first Christmas together.
Relationships: Carmilla/Laura (Carmilla)
Series: FICMAS 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034025
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Caught Up In the Spirit of the Season

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: First Christmas Together, By deheerkonijin. (Bet you didn't think it would be like this?)

This is to be our first Christmas together and my first one away from the only home I had ever known, but I still felt happiness beyond my wildest imaginings, because I am spending it with the person I most dearly and achingly adore, my darling Carmilla.

To be here now, in this small but cosy attic-room, we had fled the tightening noose of terror, the execution planned for my beloved by those who I still liked to think had meant well, being limited in their understanding, but whose actions I couldn't abide, as they had been planning on killing Carmilla, which I just couldn't stand aside for. She may have done terrible things, but my love for her had grown so fierce and possessive that I could not let anyone make away with her, not as long as I could prevent it. Not then, not now.

And so, we had fled, my deadly companion and I, with only her limited knowledge of the world and whatever worldly possessions I had thought to take with me, which did not consist of much money, but we would make by, so I had believed in that moment of giddy escape.

Now, here we are, far away from everything familiar and all feeling strange on that account, getting by with my limited French and Carmilla's charm, as well as some questionable actions that cannot be explained away as nothing but murder. Yet, my love needs to eat.

Paris is a city easy to disappear into and I have found that it is easy to turn a blind eye to Carmilla's nightly excursions here, not every night, but often enough. But she always comes back home to me and tells me that I am the only one she loves, assuring me that she preys on the lowest of the low, murderers and cutthroats and rapists, so I do not need to think she is taking innocent lives to sustain herself.

I would gladly have her feast only from me, but that would not sustain her indefinitely, that I know well, and I have not been quite ready to be drained, to welcome her strange hunger in me, even if I suffer it in her.

It is different to know that there is a world beyond a single day’s carriage ride away and to learn to live in it. I do not think that I would have it in me to learn another way of life, another existence, not yet. But I know that it is coming, my mortal days ticking away quicker than they should be, immortality lurking in every too-bright gaze Carmilla throws my way.

But we have a home and each other and it keeps us content, even Carmilla, restless as she always is.

Our escape has brough us to Paris in December and the comfort of our small attic room has been a luxury, it is not as warm as could be, but it is home, has been home and will be until… I cannot even dare finish the mere thought.

Having been caught up in the spirit of the season, I have added some decorations to our small attic apartment, though it is nothing like my home, where the traditions of my father's native England and my mother's Styrian heritage had mixed, some of the latter traditions still held by me and papa even after her death, kept up by our servants native to the country, who had added their own traditions to the mix.

It is all largely unfathomable to Carmilla, especially the little fir tree which I had managed to purchase from our now not too meagre funds, bolstered after our settling into Paris by selling some needlework and Carmilla's quick fingers, which I tried to not think about too much. I had decorated the tree the best I could, wrapping its clay pot in a festive red cloth and hanging some pretty baubles on the branches. They caught the light of the candles in our room beautifully, reflecting shimmering light to lift the spirits and casting off multi-coloured shadows.

'Why is there a tree?'

It is not her harsh tone, but one of curiosity. There are some things she finds hard to grasp in living in such a big city, but I share them and we are handling them together. But then there are other things, like this, that simply completely and utterly baffle her.

'It is a Christmas tree,’ I tell her, winding my arm around her waist and dropping my head onto her shoulder ‘Not as big as we would have at home, nor as nicely decorated, but I deem it still pretty.'

She sighs. 'We never had such things in my youth, I do not think.' This she says not looking a day older than twenty, her youthful visage hiding the truth of her age, everything she has forgotten in the countless years since her rebirth.

'No trees?' I ask, positively aghast. 

Her face scrunches up adorably as she thinks, standing by my side and reaching out for a bauble to make it spin a little with a gentle flick of a finger. 'No, I do not think so, but so much of those early years are lost to time now. I do recall grand balls and big firs filled with candles and decorations now, yes, but that was later, when I was roaming.'

I squeeze my arm around her waist. 'Are we still not roaming?' We are settled here and yet…

'We are settled here and will be safe if we… if we are careful.'

It is still strange to hear her talk about being careful, as her recklessness had nearly led to her ruin, and my loss of her for good. But we are here now, we have not been found and we might still outrun our pursuit, may have already done so. It is wicked to think, but papa's health will not hold out forever and then… but that is no thought for Christmas, which ought to be a source of joy and gaiety. I cast a wish then and there that Papa may find happiness in knowing that I am where I wish to be, that he might believe it finally. That she is happy.

‘I am always careful, my dearest, you know that,’ I tell her, even when running away with her has been the most reckless thing I have ever done in my life. That it is possibly the best thing while somehow being the worst from a certain perspective, is another matter. One which I shall not dwell on now, but lock away amidst all the other things I cannot bear to contemplate.

Her fingertips feel cool against my cheek as she leans in to kiss me on my lips, drawing our bodies together face to face, just to feel me shudder as she steals all my reason. Her ‘My heart,’ she calls me, her dark eyes glittering, as she withdraws, ‘all mine.’

Something in me breaks, some resistance, a small part of me that had clung to a belief that this would not be my life for the rest of my days, that I might some day go back to what I had been, choose a safe and uneventful life. I know that will never happen, now. I shudder, yet there is a comfort in the thought.

Having not come up with what I could give her for Christmas, as she may like nice things, but doesn’t seem to greatly care for material possessions, her focus always being on people, currently me in particular, I give her the gift of my body, willing and ready for ravishment, which she accepts with grace and passion that used to frighten me, but now titillates and heightens the experience. Is the reason I lock so many thoughts away, just to be loved by her.

But it is not just the pleasure of my body, my blood, that I give her, even when I do not know it in the moment.

She drinks from my breast, not enough to fully slake her thirst, but enough to quench and deepen her ardour. I squirm under the press and weight and touch of her, my whole body singing with pleasure that finds no beginning or end.

My eyes fix on one of the new Christmas baubles as the mood shifts, as my surrender is taken for more and I find myself on a path of no return, finally and inevitably and too soon all at once, Carmilla taking my lack of struggle as permission. I have made my decision, there is no return to what had been.

I just want to be loved, to enjoy this Christmas like it was the last, with her deep, bone-trembling growl of ‘ _MINE’_ finally claiming me fully and gifting me with forever.


End file.
